Irina Derevko: Conditioned
by Regency
Summary: Irina's being abused and nobody cares...On Perm. Hiatus.
1. Irina Derevko Conditioned

Author: Regency  
  
Title: Irina Derevko: Conditioned  
  
Spoilers/Seasons: None  
  
Rating: PG-13, possible R  
  
Pairing: Jack/Irina  
  
Category: Violence; Hurt/Comfort  
  
Summary: She'd said he'd never take her, never break her, but it wasn't long before she was kneeling on the ground whenever he entered her cell.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own them, though I haven't the slightest idea who does. I only own the character of Viktor Navrykev. Can you pronounce that? No? I can't either.  
  
Author's Notes: I don't see this having a happy ending, because the CIA is full of mean people and that's just that.  
  
**The Cell**  
  
She kneels on the hard, cement floor of the cell and stares resolutely at the door. They could do to her whatever they pleased, but they'll never get what they want. She'll never tell them what they want, need to hear. She's been tortured before; nothing they can do to her will be new, can possibly be worse. She might even laugh in their faces. This will be a breeze for her.  
  
The heavy door slams open and smacks back against the stone wall. A familiar shadowy steps forward. She only raises an eyebrow in greeting and acknowledges him no further.  
  
"Welcome to my humble abode, Irana. I apologize for the mess. We've been…busy." She still says nothing. In the air lingers the smell of charred flesh, and blood. If she sits still to listen for long of enough, she'd swear that she could hear the sound of former prisoners screaming out to God and pleading for their lives. But, surely, that's just her imagination. Surely.  
  
"It is nothing, Viktor. I am used to worse." Her accent is at it's thickest when she's being patronizing.  
  
"I have no doubt of that, Irana. But you are a lady; a beautiful lady. You deserve only the best." She gives an uninterested and terribly unimpressed glance. She has better things to do than to be hit on by this moron.  
  
"What do you want, Viktor? I have precious little time for your games."  
  
"Whatever do you mean, Irana? Aren't you glad to see me? We don't get together nearly often enough." She has always hated this, the way he says her name. He says, Irana. And it grinds her so. She clinches her teeth in annoyance, but says nothing more. She is well aware who has the upper hand here. "Oh, Irana, you seem displeased to be here with me. Why?"  
  
"It may have something to do with you being an ignorant and troublesome Neanderthal." She sees the blow coming and still isn't quick enough to deflect it or evade it. He has a better right hook than she'd have guessed. She lay there dazed for a moment before catapulting herself off the ground and striking back with a left hook of her own. He doesn't go down easily. And neither does she…But she does go down.  
  
It was a hell of a fight. A close one, at that. But in the end it was clear that Irina Derevko had lost. Although, she did leave a hell of a mark, several in fact. There was already an ugly bruise purpling over his jaw, his lip was split, and there was a cut over his eyebrow. He was enraged. She'd wrinkled his very expensive Egyptian silk tie.  
  
Irina was lying silently on the floor, eyes open, but barely. She watched, not so much with contempt as actual fear, because she finally realized they she just may have gotten herself in way too over her head.  
  
Viktor wipes at his split and spits at her with contempt before turning to leave her alone. He throws the contemptuous phrase over his shoulder with what she is sure is a grin on his face.  
  
"Get comfortable, Miss Derevko. You're going to be with us for awhile." His laughter reverberated down the hallway after him. That's when she knew she was in way over her head. She has a feeling this is going to be worse than Kashmir, much worse. For the first time in years, she starts to whisper the 'Hail Mary.' It has been a long time since she's talked to God, but it's been even longer since she 'd believed He'd listened. She hopes He's listening now, 'cause she's gonna need him.  
  
She started with defiance, then vehemence, but nothing would dissuade them, would dissuade him. Eventually, she realized that he wasn't after information anymore. That was no longer the prize; she was the prize and he had made it his mission to break her, to own her. She was determined not to let that happen. Unfortunately, fate nor God, it seemed, was on her side. As time went by her motivation to escape became less and her hope of rescue had been trampled. After all, she was Irina Derevko, a known terrorist and assassin. Who would risk their life to save hers? Who would care? She knew the answer as well as anyone in the weary world of Rambaldi, lies, and espionage. No one. There would be no one.  
  
Soon she found, that it wasn't worth the effort to stand and defy him in silence when he entered her cell. Eventually, she sat completely still until he gave the order to do otherwise. After that, came a time when she never looked him or anyone in the eye. She had come to realize that she was not worthy of what most would call basic creature comforts. There was a desk, a bed, a chair, a blanket and pillow. She didn't even dare look at them lest provoke the wrath of the man who claimed her as his own. He told her again and again and again, if she did what was right, what he told her to, then, all would be well. Everything from the past would be forgiven and she wanted so badly to be forgiven.  
  
He said never to flinch when the others came. Never to be bothered by their wandering hands and cruel intent. He said that as long as she never cried or made a disparaging remark; it would all be very brief. It was just a test, he said. And she believed him. After all the bruises, scars, and cuts he'd afflicted onto her body with his very own hands, she believed him. Because she'd run out of things to believe in much too soon. He said, that if she was good, she could come and live with him in his home in Italy. She could start over. There were even children there waiting for her to be their mother. If she was good for just a little longer. He promised her and she believed him. Because she'd run out of things to believe in far too long ago. How was she to know that there was someone out there who gave a damn that she had disappeared? Who gave a damn that she was no where to be found? She wasn't and she didn't…  
  
But there was and they were looking for her.

CIA Headquarters  
  
Sydney walks through the bullpen just short of a run. She had gotten a call that there was news on her mother. The caller hadn't elaborated further, only urging her to arrive soon. She'd been out the door two minutes later. She'd been stopped for a speeding ticket. She luckily had a clean record and he let her off with a warning. She'd barely given him time to say thank you before continuing to speed. She was pretty sure he'd have given chase if he'd thought he could catch her. He had her information; he could call her later.  
  
She slips into the conference room a little after the briefing starts and takes her seat with an apologetic look to Kendall. He nods back and continues.  
  
"For those of you just now joining us…" A meaningful look to a reddening Sydney. "This briefing is about intel we have just received that indicates that known terrorist and CIA informant, Irina Derevko is being held prisoner in a fortress-like structure Siberia. We need to extract her."  
  
Vaughn is suspicious. "Why would we want to do that? We've been trying to keep her locked up for years. Someone finally succeeded in doing what we couldn't. Why are we going to try and undo this."  
  
To say he's bias is an understatement.  
  
"Because if we don't they very well may kill her. We've got doubles inside and they say that she's being treated heinously, to say the least."  
  
"So? Irina is quite capable of caring for herself." There's no pity from Jack.  
  
"Maybe before, but apparently she's been conditioned, for lack of a more appropriate term, to not fight or resist anything they do to her." The way he emphasizes that one word sends chills down Syd's spine.  
  
"Anything?" He only nods. " I mean, does she just sit there? Are they even sure she isn't dead already?" She knows her mother as well as she can given the circumstances and this isn't like her mother.  
  
"They're as sure as they can be. She only responds to one man's command and doesn't make eye contact with anyone. All she does is sit on the floor. There's a bed and a chair and all she does is sit on the floor. All day and all night. According to the doubles she is fed once every two days, keeping her sufficiently weak enough that even if she chose to fight she probably couldn't manage it. And when she does receive food, she only eats on one man's order, no one else's.  
  
"Do we have proof of life? I mean, more than just their word to go on? This whole thing could be a set up." She needs more than just someone's word to tell her that Irina Derevko has broken. The others need more than just someone's word that Irina has been captured. How can she blame them after everything her mother has put them through? Can she blame them at all?  
  
"There's brief video footage of her being transported from the compound in Siberia. That was three months ago. We haven't been able to locate her since then." It plays on the television behind him.  
  
"I thought you said she was in Siberia?"  
  
"She was." Okay, now Sydney's confused.  
  
"Do you know where my mother is or is this an after the fact briefing with no bearing on anything?" Kendall rarely looks flustered, but there's a first time for everything.  
  
"We know she's in Italy…somewhere."   
  
"Okay, now that we've narrowed that down by _COUNTRY_, could we possibly narrow it down to a city or province so that maybe we'd have half a hope in hell of finding her, or is that too much to hope for from the CIA with their well-trained and _loyal _operatives?" She looks too much like her mother when she stands there with that look on her face.  
  
"That's enough, Agent Bristow!" She's on her feet, her face is flushed. Her father's words don't even register. It would probably surprise him how seldom they do.  
  
She just stands there before letting out a disgusted snort and leaving the room. She's as disgusted and disheartened as she can stand being. There was a time when she believed in the sense of duty that came with serving her country. It would make her chest swell with pride whenever she entered the building. She's learned better. Now, the only sense she has is a sense of regret, of guilt. Regret for the lost life that she feels was rightfully hers and guilt for the lives she ruthlessly stole with a shot from her gun or worse, her bare hands. It was all in the name of patriotism, they say. Patriotism or not, every death stains her soul with an equivalent darkness, stealing a piece of her at every turn. She's used to it now, but that doesn't make her the cold, calculated killer she should be at this stage. That makes her a murderer with a conscience, a dangerous thing to have in this business.  
  
After everything her mother has done, everything she's caused, Sydney should hate her, wish her dead. But there's too much blood on her hands already, far too much. All Sydney wants is to sit on the couch and have her mother sit down beside her. They could watch movies, talk about anything and everything. She knows that if the world would just go the hell away, they could. They could just be mother and daughter instead of sometimes enemies, sometimes advocates. Sydney would be damned if her mother died before that happened. After all, her mother owes her a Christmas present. It's time she talked to Marshall…Irina leans down and presses a kiss to Andres's little forehead and smiles as he stirs fussily in his sleep. Her son, he is always so grouchy. She loves him that way. She knows how sweet he is on the inside. Only she and Cleci know.  
  
She moves down the hall to Cleci's room and slips inside through the cracked door. She watches the little girl with knowing eyes and tiptoes a little bit closer. A little bit closer…and then she pounces on the unsuspecting little girl and begins to tickle her mercilessly. The little girl squeals and squirms under her mother's hands. There's a resounding thump down the hall and both of them stop cold. Irina's hand covers her daughter's mouth with a finger to her own lips. It's her father. He hates to be awakened in the middle of the night, especially like this.  
  
She can hear his heavy footsteps on the carpet. He knows what terror it invokes in both of them. They can hear him pause at Andres's room and his steps fade away for a moment. She prays that the boy remains asleep. Soon, he is back in the hall and she assumes her prayer was answered. He's on him way to them. She needs to be out of here when he gets here. Leaning down, she kisses her daughter's forehead and says the code phrase for danger:  
  
"Play dead. I love you, little one." Her daughter returns the sentiment before turning on her side, her face obscured by the quilt and slowing down her breathing. That's a girl. With one more look back, Irina sprints to the girl's bathroom and slips in before going all the way through to the connecting door to the guest room. Peeking out into the hall, she runs back to the bedroom she shares with Viktor and gets inside just as his footsteps make the return trip down the hall. She prays he gets hungry and goes downstairs. For the first time in months, it seems, fate or God is on her side and he descends the staircase, loudly before fading away into the corridor. She let's out a painful breath and falls back onto the bed. After taking a moment, she gets up and hastily changes into her sleepwear, a knee-length teddy in the deepest black cherry the store could muster. Though, she prays it stirs no interest in him, she is sure it will and she has to be ready for that. Going into their bathroom, she brushes her teeth and washes her face.   
  
She stops for a moment to look at herself. Her face is the same, her body…marginally so. She's exactly the same woman she was months ago, except she can't look at herself, not really. She doesn't meet her own gaze. _'It is shameful,'_ she thinks. _'Father would disown me for this.'_ Of course, her father was a class-A ass, does his acceptance mean that much to her? Surprisingly, it still does. Her shame only deepens. Sometimes, she wishes someone would save her, but has learned to curb the urge, because she remembers how lucky she is to be here. Other female prisoners would give both of their legs and an arm to be where she was. She's got had an assistant, a maid, and two beautiful children. She is well cared for. What else could she ask for? This is already more than she deserves after the life she's lead. She knows this well. Viktor reminds her of that whenever she misbehaves. She doesn't misbehave anymore.  
  
Just then, the sound of the door opening shakes her from her reverie. She faces herself to see herself crying. It's funny, she doesn't even remember the tears. She knows he hates it when she cries. She turns on the water and scrubs at her face, trying to wash away the signs of her misery. She can't allow him to believe she is anything, but absolutely grateful. For her and the children's sake. She splashes her face with water and dries it to come face to face with Viktor. He's standing behind her, his eyes clear. No malice, none of the sadistic cheer she remembers. Just clear. He's staring at her face, something on her face. She looks where his eyes are and closes her own. There's a tear there. It must have come after she dried her face. Her breath is shallow and she prays for mercy tonight. Mercy never comes when called. That's something Viktor taught her also.  
  
She turns to him. "I need to brush my hair." She slips between him and the door and goes to sit in front of her vanity. Taking the silver brush that was a gift from him, she strokes it through her dark hair until every strand shines on its own. She can still feel his eyes on her. He hasn't left the bathroom yet, just turned around to watch her. She prays he won't question her tears. Her prayers are rarely answered.  
  
"Why were you crying?" She doesn't say anything and starts to braid her hair the way her mother taught her to. Viktor hates to be ignored. He asks her again. "Why were you crying?" She still doesn't answer. "Irina, look at me when I'm speaking to you." He reaches out and grabs her shoulder, turning her roughly to face him. She doesn't look into his eyes. She never does. "Why were you crying?"  
  
"I don't know." He doesn't believe her, he never does. She expects a violent reaction. There is none.  
  
"You know." She shakes her head and hopes that he is done with this. "Now, tell me, Irina. Why are you crying?" He grabs her chin and lifts it up so that her eyes should meet his. They still don't. She looks over his shoulder at a painting over the bed.  
  
"I thought I was sad, but I was wrong. I was confused."  
  
"Are you sure you're confused?" She nods. "Okay. I'll believe you…this time. Come to bed, Irina." She nods before putting down her brush and rising to follow him. He has already turned down her side of the bed. She waits for him to sit before doing the same. She lays down with her back to him as he turns out the light. She exhales in relief until she feel s his hand on her back. His touch is insistent and she turns over to face him. She hates it when he gets that look in his eyes. He gets it far too often. "You look beautiful tonight." She tries to smile, but it's strained. She knows what he wants, what he always wants.  
  
"Thank you. You look rather handsome yourself." She slips her accent in to add to the seduction. He likes that and lets out a throaty laugh. That laugh always scares the hell out of her. She hides it well. She doesn't even realize she does it anymore. As he slides his hand behind her head and kisses her lips, she closes her eyes and pretends to be somewhere else twenty years earlier in another man's arms. Her last thought is…  
  
_'He finally learned how to say my name.'_


	2. Utter Desolation

Author: Regency

Title: Irina Derevko: Conditioned

Spoilers/Seasons: None, really there aren't any and if there are I don't what it is.

Rating: PG-13, possible R

Pairing: Jack/Irina

Category: Violence; Hurt/Comfort

Summary: She was a woman on the run, but that didn't please him so she stopped. She wore her hair in a bun; he didn't like it so she stopped. She wore pants out of the house; he didn't like that, so she wore skirts instead.

Disclaimer: I don't own them, though I haven't the slightest idea who does. I only own the character of Viktor Navrykey. Can you pronounce that? No? I can't either.

Author's Notes: I don't see this having a happy ending, because the CIA is full of mean people and that's just that. There's no Nadia. I'm ignoring everything I've seen on the show, so far, unless otherwise indicated. Basically, you will know if you read it. Like I said though, there's no Nadia.

alias

**Utter Desolation**

She smiles brightly for all of them to see before retreating to the kitchen. Irina Navrykey is nothing if not the perfect hostess. She's stunning, articulate, and an amazing mother. She's the envy of every woman at her home this night. She steals the breaths of men in a scarlet knee-length dress with beguiling spaghetti straps that she turns around to reveal a plunging back with narrow straps crossing the bare expanse of flesh to and fro. With the dress, she wears matching heels of ribbon that wind their way up her legs like vines on a trellis. Around her neck hangs a simple ruby surrounded by diamonds on a golden chain. Her hair spills over her shoulders in a cinnamon waterfall. It is restrained with a plate and dowel, tendrils falling out rebelliously to frame her face. She is beautiful.

She glides across the kitchen floor more gracefully than someone of a full six feet would be expected to. She winks at Cleci, who's sequestered herself on the tabletop, sneaking treats from the various trays that pass her way. The maids let her, they love her. Who doesn't?

"What have you been up to all night?" The young eyes soak in her mother's appearance, enchantment shining so innocently that it pains Irina to look.

"Nothing. I just watch all the people. They don't pay that much attention to me. Why don't they pay attention to me, mama? I've been good. Haven't I?" Her soft Italian-accented voice is so disappointed, so heart broken. Irina wishes she could tell her how much she would give to have these people not care about her, not watch her with such rapt attention, such envy. But she won't. This is simply of phase in childhood. They all go through it. She would survive it.

"Oh, yes, my little starlight, you've been wonderful. They are all over-stuffed shirts with trophy wives and more power than their little minds know what to do with." Little doe eyes peer at her from under her fringe and she is reminded of Sydney at this age. The remembrance of her late daughter breaks her heart. She blinks away the tears and goes back to helping prepare the hors douevres.

"Mama, what's a trophy wife?" Sometimes the maturity of her gaze blinds Irina to the fact that her daughter is in reality still a small child.

"A trophy wife is...a pretty woman that a man marries just for being pretty instead of for love." Her eyes widen. The notion of marrying someone for any reason other than love is preposterous in her eyes. It goes against all her mother has ever taught her.

"But why? Why marry if not for love?" Irina shrugs. That is something that she, herself, will never understand. She prays that her daughter never realizes that her mother was in fact, her father's trophy wife and it wasn't just because she was pretty.

"I don't know, sweetheart. I don't know why else one would bind themselves to another for life, if not for love. I never--" She stops herself. She won't lie to her daughter. She owes her honesty and so, she simply doesn't say anything.

She can hear Viktor's boisterous laughter all the way in the kitchen and knows that he's on his way. He'll have a conniption if he realizes that Cleci is in the kitchen. She's not even supposed to be awake. Her bedtime was hours ago. She looks into Ceci's eyes and sees the fear that has dwelled there from day one.

"Ceci, take the servant's staircase and go to your room." Irina helps her down off the counter and pushes in the right direction. "Go now, Cleci Gaza Navrykey!" The little girl hightails it up the well-concealed steps and is soon out of sight. Thank God...

Irina immediately returns to preparing the trays as if nothing had happened. Literally, moments later the kitchen door swings open and in comes Viktor.

"Irina, what are you doing in here? The guests miss you. Come back outside." She doesn't meet his gaze, but continues cutting the kiwi for the fruit tray.

"I have to finish this for the fruit trays, Viktor." She says this through a locked jaw. She can feel him moving closer and her body tenses.

"Is it possible that you are defying me, Irina?" He's so quiet that if it weren't for the inflection of his words, they'd be a verbal caress.

"No, of course not, Viktor. I would never do that."

"Of course you wouldn't, Irina. I mean, what reason would you have?" She keeps looking down, the tendrils falling into her line of sight. They only make it harder for her to see, her eyes already blurry with tears. She knows what he will say, and just like always, it will hurt her. Just the way he intends.

"None." She keeps cutting the kiwi and when she finishes with the last one, she walks over to the sink and rinses it off before returning and starting with the pineapple.

"Right. You would have no reason to defy me after I saved from your past...forgave your sins. Made sure that you didn't go to jail for killing your husband and daughter. Not to mention, your unborn child...you innocent son." Her heart aches from the memories he recalls that she can't. Her chest heaves as she struggles against the sobs inside that dare to claw their way to the surface. She holds them in, because if he sees them, it won't stop. Not tonight, not tomorrow, maybe not for months. And she won't be the only one to suffer. Her children will suffer; maybe even the servants will feel his wrath. She doesn't want this. There's enough blood on her hands.

"I know, I was there, Viktor." She bites her lip and prays that he lets it pass. The room is inundated in silence. For a moment, she even dares to hope that he's left the room, but she peaks up through her fringe and sees him standing there almost resplendent in the stillness. She looks back down and tries to resume her cutting, but her hands shake so badly that she accidentally slices her palm open. She doesn't cry out, too aware is she of his presence. She goes to drawer nearest to sink, rifling through for something to stop the bleeding. He hates it when they use the kitchen towels to clean up blood. There's more blood spilled in this kitchen than is healthy for anyone, especially her. She reaches deep back into the drawer, still searching, and her fingers encounter something silky and lacy. She wraps her fingers around it and pulls it out. Panties. Red, silk and lace panties. Irina is sure that those aren't hers. She would like to put these down now, but can't think of a way to do it gracefully. She silently sits them back in the drawer and closes it. She'll go to the bathroom to find something.

She starts up the service staircase, but his voice stops her. "Take the main staircase. It would look strange for you to disappear from the kitchen and reappear in the den." She nods. Taking a moment to check herself over with her good hand, she slips back out into the part and declining various offers to dance, ascends the stairs. She plays the battered wife so well. An Oscar winning performance. She wishes it were just an act. It's become her life.

She walks the hall towards the bathroom so that she may tend to her hand. Her acute hearing picks up a door opening down the hall. She steps closer to the aforementioned door. She crouches down to come eye to eye with Ceci. Her daughter yanks the door open and throws herself at her mother. Irina cradles the shaking girl in her arms.

"It's all right, sweetheart. Don't worry. Everything's all right, now." Ceci reaches up and presses a hand to the side of her face.

"Did he hurt you again?" Irina shakes her head.

"He didn't hurt me. Look, I'm fine." Ceci checks all over with a suspicious glance. She turns around and takes her mother's hands.

"Oh, momma. You said he didn't hurt you."

"He didn't. I did that accidentally." She looks into her eyes skeptically.

"Positive?" Irina nods. "Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye?"

"Yes, to all that. Though it sound like it hurts a little."

"Okay." She tips her head, turning Irina's injured hand in her smaller one. "Come on, we gots to put something on this." She takes Irina's good hand and guides her into her room. Irina looks behind her to make certain that Viktor isn't coming. He isn't. She can hear his false laughter all the way up here.

Cleci closes the door behind them. "Come on, we're going to the bathroom." She starts on her way, fully expecting Irina to follow on her own. She does. Ceci pushes the cracked door all the way open. She walks over to the toilet, putting the lid down obviously expecting Irina to sit down. She does. She's learned to understand when she's being led.

Cleci pulls her little wicker stool over to the sink and stands on it to reach the medicine cabinet. She rifles through it for a moment and comes down with an armful of bottles, tubes, and a box. She drops them all onto the floor.

"Put out your hand, please." Irina hesitantly does as she's told. She knows that she never approved of any of the items scattered on the floor. Ceci picks up a bottle of alcohol. She gestures for Irina to follow her over to the tub. Irina does and holds her hand over it. With an apologetic glance, Ceci pours a generous amount over the gash on her hand. Irina doesn't make a sound, but flinches minutely. Ceci turns on the cold water tap and hold Irina's hand under it for a moment before shaking it off a bit. She goes back to the pile near the toilet for peroxide and witch hazel. She holds them up for her mother to see and analyze. Irina's consent given, she pours on a bit of peroxide and watches as it bubbles around the laceration. She winces, because she knows first-hand how much that stuff stings, but it's for a good cause. It'll keep the infection down. She continues to pour it on until the fizzing is minimal. She holds Irina's hand back under the tap for a moment or two longer than before and takes it back out with another good shake. Almost done. She pours on the witch hazel and nothing happens. Good. Nothing is supposed to.

She leads her mother back to the toilet and goes back to her first aid pile on the floor. She opens the box and rifles through it for something. She takes out a little paper packet and tears it open. Irina puts her hand out and the little girl carefully rests the little square onto the wound. It's just big enough to cover it. She then pulls out some medical tape and bites off pieces to tape on each side of the little square, securing it to her palm. Irina flexes her hand and it follows the motion. It's a good wrap.

"Thank you, sweetheart." Ceci leans up and kisses her momma on the cheek. She learned early on how to take care of her own wounds. "Let's get you to bed. We have to go shopping in the morning. Remember?" She nods and Irina hoists her up into her arms. It's bedtime.

Laying her on the bed, she pulls the comforter up around her shoulders. She doesn't deserve a little girl as wonderful as this one. She wishes that she didn't have to know how to treat wounds so well. She's just a little girl, her mother should be able to protect to her. So, why does Irina feel like she's failed so spectacularly?

Sydney walks purposefully, but her face is distracted. Her mother is being held prisoner. She knows. She likes to believe that she and her mother share a connection, one they both know of, but never speak of. Every night, as she sleeps, she relives her mother's pain, her torment. It is just as much her cross to bear as her mother's. She stops for a moment and leans on the wall for support. A searing agony blurs her vision and she soon finds herself on her knees, then on her back.

Her whole left side is throbbing with pain and her face feels like it's being dragged across a rock quarry. She can vaguely hear a name being called. It might be hers or it might be her mother's. She's too lost in her pain to notice. Soft voices of the past and present whisper comfortingly into her ear.

_Don't cry, my baby. Don't cry. It's all going to be okay. Just hold on, sweet one, hold on. It will be over soon. _She can feel a feather-light kiss across her brow. She calms, but her body starts to shiver as though she's been thrown into ice-cold water. God, it hurts.

Irina gasps as the rains pours over her head and struggles to swim in the freezing pool. Her clothes are pulling her under. Her hair floats about her face and her dress billows in the water. She's drowning.

He's taken everything from her. Her children are probably already so buried in bribes and bureaucracy that finding them again will probably be the impossibility of her life. He's taken her freedom and her very breath. She can hold her breath with the best of them, but time's running out and her strength isn't what it used to be. Her toes just touch the pool floor and her fingers don't even brush the surface anymore. She needs a hero, but history seems all out of them. She's resigned herself to drowning. Does she even deserve any better? He didn't think so and she couldn't think at all.

Suddenly a pair of bodies break the surface and she's saved from her freezing cold hell. As they pull her out, she vaguely realizes that it's raining. Out of the water and into the rain. The irony of that is largely lost on the two agents they lay her on the stone walkway surrounding the pool. They don't think she's breathing. She can't be; she was in for far too long to breathing. She takes a gasping breath and tries to regurgitate all the water that invaded her body for those long minutes. Just another thing taking what isn't theirs. She guesses it isn't hers either anymore. Invasion shouldn't be so simple.

They rub her back with surprising compassion and wrap her in one of their coats. She's thankful for that. She's chilled to the very marrow of her bones, her skin is a golden kind of gray, if that's possible, and her eyes are lifeless with a side of misery. It's no surprise that her bruises show and her hand has begun to bleed again. They ask her her name and she can't think of anything to say. They flash a light into her eyes and apparently they don't like what they see.

"Agent Derevko, can you hear me? Agent Derevko?" His partner shakes his shoulder and makes a negative gesture with his head. His partner steps away and allows him to try. He crouches down in front of her and studies her dazed face.

"Ma'am, it's Agent Trinity. Irina, are you in there? Irina, I know you're scared, but you have to tell me if you're all right so that we can get you some help. Are you all right?" She shakes her head and she crumbles, tears coming down her already wet face against her will. He, against what is probably the best advice he's ever received, takes her into his arms and strokes her hair. He knows a broken woman when he sees one. She clings to him, afraid of what has been and what more is to come. No one will be able to forgive her. Forgiveness is all she wants. She had another chance to live her life better and she failed. She doesn't deserve to live.

She lives the way she was taught and believes just the same. Viktor ought to be very proud of himself. He's broken the great Irina Derevko.

_And she will, at vulgar cost, rend the world to utter desolation. She will have had her affect never having seen my sky behind Mt. Subasio. Maybe it could've cooled her fire. _Maybe.

aliasaliasaliasalias

She was brought into the Rotunda in a wheelchair, Agents walking protectively on each side of her. It was hard to tell if she was a prisoner or a protectee.She looked so small, she felt even smaller.

Sydney stopped outside of the briefing room as her mother passed by. She wanted to reach for her but something stopped her. That woman wasn't her mother; she was just a broken woman. Just like Sydney. She would see her later.

But as she turned to walk away, she felt the dark and empty gaze of that woman on her back. She looked over her shoulder to see is see if she was, in fact, being watched, but they'd already headed for the Recovery Wing. Her mother was hurt. She hoped she'd see her again.

aliasaliasaliasalias

Irina is poked and prodded with more things than she can remember from Muzafrabad. She doesn't complain though. She knows better than to complain. She lets them do what they will to her. She deserves it. Viktor's voice commands that she make their name the most feared, but she only curls into a ball and cries. She can't do anymore. She can't stand anymore. She just wants her Sydney and her Jack back. She wants heaven when all she's had is hell. She wants Ceci and Andres. She wants to scream, but her throat is raw from chlorine. She wishes she'd died. She's already dead.

She doesn't see her late daughter and husband watching her through a two-way mirror. They shouldn't be there. She thinks they're dead. She misses them so much. Killing them was her worst sin.

"What happened to her, Dad?"

"She was held prisoner in Italy. La Provencia de --."

"How long was she held there?" Jack sighs.

"It's impossible to know, but if the agents hadn't found her when they did, she'd be dead. She was at the bottom of a pool in the villa. When they pulled her out, surprisingly she was still breathing. She'd held her breath the whole time."

"She didn't try to get out?"

"Apparently she'd been drugged. Her glass was at the bottom of the pool, so that was impossible to test, but it was in her blood."

"Who?" He looks down sideways at her. "Who did it? Who would poison her? Who would dare?"

"Whoever dared to imprison her in the first place." Sydney doesn't understand. She didn't look like a prisoner.

"Why didn't she run away? She was in a villa, she had to have had the opportunity to escape after three months. Why didn't she try to escape?"

"She was conditioned." Syd frowns and tries to comprehend the term _conditioned._

"Conditioned? I don't understand."

"She was trained...or tortured to believe certain things and to respond to situations a certain way. She's been conditioned to accept any punishment or treatment. She's not putting up any kind of a fight. She's just taking it. That's not the Irina I know."

"Me neither." That isn't Laura Bristow or Irina Derevko. So, who is this woman, this enigma and why is she broken? Who will fix her now? _Can_ she be fixed?

aliasaliasalias

She writhes on her bed, screaming in Russian, begging Viktor to give her her family back, to return them to where they rightfully should be. With her. He refuses, laughing and spitting in her face as he has done to her before. _You are not deserving of such mercies, _he had said. She would look away in shame, but would allow no tears to come. Her tears are all she can call her own. Her tears and her sins. These are all she owns, nothing more. She longs for more. So much more.

She eventually thrashes so violently that orderlies are sent in to restrain her. She only fights harder, finding the strength that had been stolen from her. She screams, but is weak and finally can fight no longer. She closes her eyes and shuts her awful ultraviolet world away. She chokes on her own sobs and coughs. She wants nothing to do with these people. They only want to punish her. Everyone wants to punish her. The orderlies cover her with the standard, blue-knit sheet. She turns her head away from them, her humiliation complete. She wishes for silence and with the subtle, considerate click of the door, she has it. Her silence. An empty joy casts itself upon her features. Something new that belongs to her, something to own. Her silence. That alone will not warm her broken heart and shattered soul, but somewhere deep within this mere shadow of a woman, Irina Derevko bides her time and practices her circadian rhythms, so that she'll be ready. And soon, she will be strong again and when she is, the world at large will quiver at the strength of her might and cower when they see the devastation that she will leave in her wake.

Irina Derevko has not begun to lose, for she has not begun to fight. But she will. And at that time, she shall wield the Power of Hera.

_... she will, at vulgar cost, rend the world to utter desolation..._

She has not begun to fight.

_...Utter desolation..._

Not yet.


	3. Escape

Author: Regency

Title: Irina Derevko: Conditioned

Spoilers/Seasons: None, really there aren't any and if there are I don't what it is.

Rating: PG-13, possible R

Pairing: Irina, Irina/Jack…eventually anyway.

Category: Violence; Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Irina Navreykev has finally escaped Viktor's clutches only to lose her freedom ( again) and her children in the process. Will the real Irina be able to emerge again or will she be lost forever between the four walls of her cell.

Disclaimer: I don't own them, though I haven't the slightest idea who does. I only own the character of Viktor Navrykey. Can you pronounce that? No? I can't either.

Author's Notes: Okay, I might add Nadia, maybe…

You'll kill me if I put Irina with someone else won't you? Yeah, I thought so.

Irana will be used to refer to the mentality or personality of Irina Navrekey and Irina Derevko will simply be referred to as Irina.

**Escape**

She tosses in her bed; she's been at it for hours. It's more of a distraction than restlessness. She just can't sleep. Truthfully, sleep brings nothing more than nightmares and she can do without those. Sleep is…unnecessary. So, she doesn't sleep. Why waste time? She now uses this time to plan. To plan for what, she isn't entirely sure. Escape, she thinks. Escape.

_wwww_

Air rushes past her head and the ground rushes up to meet her, but before death is imminent, she slows and lands like a cat on her feet. _And around her, the world crashed. _Flames burn in her eyes and her rage builds. _No one will stand in her way._

The anxiety triples, her anger peaks, and her insanity reaches fever pitch. She. Needs. Destruction. She screams and she screams and she doesn't stop until there is no sound left. The only things left are the remains of a world she failed to ever be a part of.

There is nothing left, only silence; death.

She is Armageddon.

_Present_

She is yanked out of her dream by uncaring hands that jar her awake. She gasps and examines her surroundings. More damn orderlies. She shakes them off darkly.

"Let me go. I'm fine." They back off slowly. "Don't ever touch me, again. Or I will castrate you both myself." They leave the room quickly following her threat. She wants to be away from this place. She runs her fingers through her hair and breathes deeply. She hates when people touch her. They always invade her space and she hates it. They just don't understand that they weaken her. They're too close.

When she is defensive, Irina Derevko emerges to defend her, but withdraws once the dangers passes. She can't be drawn out in any other way. Irana Navrekey is like the child she has promised to protect and she does, but for any other reason, she does not exist. She can only be seen in Irana's reflection, deep in her eyes beyond the carnage that Viktor left behind.

It is she who appears at night and hushes Irana's fevered night terrors. She croons to her, speaking of vengeance, retribution, the return of the children that rightfully belong to them, and some kind of paradise that even they deserve after all of this. She disappears just before dawn breaks and Irana's eyes flutter open to meet the same loneliness, the same four walls that have confined her for a contained eternity.

She spends her days alone, only being allowed to venture out for real air for an hour and then being interrogated for another one as though she'd tell what there is to tell. Irina never allows her to tell the secrets they keep, because Irina Derevko in any form is not a victim. At least, this is what she tells herself when they force her to review the injuries, old and new, that she arrived with. She doesn't know what they expect to get from her. Viktor never told her anything about what he did. She knew even better than to ask. She has the marks to prove that trial and error is not the way to go.

She purses her lips and stares at Agent Trinity, who in turn stares at a set of ugly burns on her wrists. She self consciously pulls her long knit sleeves down over her hands and tucks them into her lap. She received those as a birthday gift from Viktor the one and only time she ever tried to escape. She'd tried to take the children with her and had paid an even worse price in each of their places. She would never allow those children to suffer when she could do it for them. They never knew any more pain than she couldn't hide from them. Viktor thought it was cute that she would go to such lengths for the little brats. She would ask that he not refer to them as "brats." She got a backhand and ring shaped bruise for her efforts. That's when she learned that living with him only afforded one so many luxuries. Freedom of speech was _not_ one of them.

She's become used to no one asking for or wanting her opinion. It doesn't matter and so she doesn't give it. They've been questioning her for days or weeks or maybe it's just been hours and she's simply lost all sense of time. They've gone through a few agents. Starting with Sydney, then Jack, but she would never believe they were real and would only curl up in a ball in the corner and beg them to forgive her. Finally, she had broken down and pleaded with them to leave her. She couldn't stand seeing them and knowing that she had killed them with her bare hands.

"I'm sorry, all right? I wish I could take back what I've done, but I can't. I would give my life…I would give…anything. Please, I'm begging you--Please just leave me." They'd looked to one another and had backed away realizing that she believed that they were dead at her doing and that nothing they said would make her believe any different.

Then, Agent Trinity had returned and he was the only one that she would speak to, though she had nothing to say to him. She felt that she owed him for saving her, for getting through to her.

"Thank you for saving my life, Agent Trinity. I am for that, forever in your debt." He nods sagely. "I know that may not seem like a lot, but I don't make it a habit of being in my captor's debts. You…are an exception, because I trust that this debt won't be used to my detriment. Have I judged you or your intentions wrong?" He leans back in his chair with an airy, unthreatened demeanor.

"No, Agent Derevko. I believe you've judged me better than half of those I know best." She smiles and clasps her hands in front of her.

"It's good to know that some things never change."

"What?"

"My being a good judge of character."

"Well, let's hope you're right then."

"I'm always right." She leans closer to bring her point home.

"Of course." He leans in until there's less than foot between them.

"Of course." She says it a matter-of-factly. She decides that she definitely likes him. The light in his eyes tells her that the feeling is returned.

"I'm only going to ask you once more…" She shutters her expression, but nods. "I won't ask again. I know when to give up--"

"Then give up now."

"No, not yet."

"Then apparently you do not know when to give up. You're still trying."

"Nope. I give." She leans back in surprise.

"You do know when to give up."

"See, didn't I say?" She smiles a rare smile at him and gives him that.

"You did." He leans forward on his arms.

"Did I see you smile?" She nibbles at her lower lip uncomfortably and shrugs. "Yes, I do believe that was a smile I saw there. Well, look at that. I am quite the master." She composes herself and returns her eyes to him.

"How so?"

"I made you smile."

"Oh, you did that? I thought that I'd just had an itch."

"An itch? Come on, I made you smile."

"I suppose."

"Thank you." She drops her eyes to her clasped hands. He's funny.

"You're very funny."

"I do try. You may not want to, but I want you to trust me."

"Why?"

"Because I want to help. I want to find the man who held you captive for so long." She leans into his, her eyes flittering to the two-way window briefly.

"My children. My son and daughter. I have to find them. Please help me find them."

"Of course, but you need to tell me what I need to hear." She desperately clasps his hands in hers.

"You don't understand. I can't tell you. I want to, but I can't. The words won't come. Viktor will kill me or my children if I say anything."

"Viktor doesn't have to know." She pulls away from him defensively.

"Viktor always knows. The man is like God."

"We can protect you."

"But can you protect my children?" His silence is the only answer she needs. "You can't guard what you can't find, right?" He lets his eyes fall to the table. "Right. So you see, Agent Trinity--"

"Edward." The interruption puzzles her.

"What?"

"Call me Edward. It's my name."

"Oh." She clears her throat to give herself time to rediscover her train of thought. "So you see Edward, you can't do what I need you to, so I can't return the favor." Not quite as eloquent as she intended, but it gets her point across.

"I understand."

"You understand?"

"Yes, I do." She peruses him unabashedly, searching for any signs of deception. Finding none, she shrugs in befuddlement.

"You must be a hit with the ladies."

"I try my best."

"I bet your wife adores you."

"I'm sure she would if I had one."

"You're not married?" He shakes his head.

"Not even dating." She nods and files that bit of information away for later. She doesn't know what she'll do with it.

"A shame. If I was a different person, I'd snap you up in a second."

"If you were a different person, I'd go voluntarily." She smiles at him lazily and he winks at her.

They definitely like one another. She has a feeling that they're going to become very close friends.

She hopes so, because she has got to get out of here.


	4. Allies and Adversaries

Summary: Irina has made a friend in captivity. Will he help her escape at the cost of his own life? Will she find her children?

AN: Irana will be used to refer to the mentality or personality of Irina Navrekey and Irina Derevko will simply be referred to as Irina. By the way, Irana's eyes are green. So, don't freak.

Also, please don't be confused by my referring to her as they. Make note if it throws you and I'll go back and do it again.

**Allies and Adversaries**

Irina counts the steps from the door to a distance from the ledge. Her agents won't allow her any closer than that, but she can guess that there are about four feet between her and the path to the ground. Twelve feet back and four feet forward. She stretches her long legs thoughtfully. In her experience, she's been able to cover four feet in a single sprint. It will take her four strides from the door to the ledge. Three to four seconds is all she'll need.

But not yet. First, she has a favor to ask.

_Present_

She waits patiently for Edward as she counts the minutes that pass. That's how she keeps her time. She can't remember what time it is, but she does know how long it's been. Two weeks and three days since they found her at the bottom of her pool. Two weeks, three days, and forty-five minutes since her children were ushered out of her home without her. Two weeks, three days, and thirty minutes since she was savagely beaten and abandoned in the pool to die.

Now she's waiting for a chance to a live, a chance to be free. And there is only one man alive today that can help her. She picks nervously at her ragged cuticles before her bothered hand comes up and slams the other down. She starts at the independent action of her hand, but knows that it's only Irina stopping her. Instead, she twitches nervously, her eyes shifting sporadically, fearing danger from empty corners. Irina wonders if it's best that she takes control for a while; just until it's over. Irana eagerly agrees and retreats into the shadows to let her sister take the foreground.

The change is instantaneous. Her posture straightens, an eyebrow rises derisively, and she poises herself on her elbows in mock patience. She's learned that she only first to whatever's next on anybody's list. That patience has served her well.

However, she's begun to nod off by the time the door to the small room opens to admit Special Agent Trinity. He sits down across from her and smacks a folder down on the tabletop to rouse her. She jumps and is unsettled to see him already there. She doesn't like to be unsettled.

He begins to shuffle the papers in the folder busily and mutters to himself. At first, she believes that he is simply thinking out loud, but then she realizes that he is, in fact, talking to her and using the shuffling to drown out their conversation.

"What do you want from me, Irina?" She tips her head curiously. "You heard me. Why did you call me here? You want something." She leans on her cuffed hands and looks slyly at the one-way window, knowing they can be seen but barely heard.

"I need I _help_. I I have to find the children before they forget me." Unbeknownst to Irina, Irana reaches out and touches his hand. Irina pulls away abruptly and admonishes her lesser self harshly. She sits stock still with her eyes clinched shut and the cuffs biting into her wrists. She unlocks her jaw and opens her dark green eyes to peer at him from under a lock of hair.

"Help me find them, please," Irana whispers desperately. "They're all I have. I've lost all I am and everything else. Please, don't let me lose them, too." He lets the papers rest in front of him as he leans across the table to her.

"Tell us what we need to hear and I can help."

"I don't know anything." Her hysteria rises as she feels the helplessness of her situation. "Can't you see that I could lose them forever? Why are you willing to sacrifice my children to get back at me? Why?" Her voice cracks and Irina wraps her arms around her protectively and drops her head.

Her breath is loud in the empty room and she shudders, dropping her arms and lifting her head. The fury in her deep brown eyes screams louder than any sound that could leave her lips. She heaves in anger and knots her fingers on the table.

"Will you help us," she rasps under their radar. She can barely contain the instinct that tells her that fight or flight are her only options. Irina is prepared to fight, but Irana wants only to flee. _The children are waiting _she thinks to her better half._I know _Irina thinks in return._ I know. _

"What do you need?" He goes back to shuffling his papers intently.

"A distraction." He pauses and seems to read something on the paper in front of him.

"What else?"

"That's all." He takes a pen out of his pocket and starts making notes on this particular sheet. He turns the paper towards her. It's a map. He starts to tap his pen on the table distractingly as he whispers his instructions.

"When you get out of this building, the fastest route between where you'll be and where you'll want to be is the one you're taking." He begins to alternate between his knuckles and his pen top. Tip-tap-tip-tap-tip-tap… "You don't have the luxury of the scenic route."

"Where is will I want to be?" He turns the paper completely around and adds the heel of his palm to the mix.

"You'll know when you get there." It takes her little more than a moment to memorize the route.

"How do I get out of here?" He takes back the paper and replaces it in the folder, snapping it shut. Finally, the cacophony stops.

"I don't need to know that, but good luck however you do it."

_Thank you _they mouth to him as he leaves the room. Both tough and soft, they owe him their lives. As they're led back to their glass hell, she mentally travels the route inscribed on her memory. She can't forget a single deviation, detour, or side road. Her lives and the lives of her children depend on her successfully travailing this course. Edward Trinity went out on a limb for her that could very well cost him his career, _his _freedom, and his life. She has to make it worth the price he may still pay.

_Inside her holding cell_

She's glad that they don't restrain her anymore. She sleeps unencumbered and it's a relief. That means that the hardest of her journey doesn't begin until later.

At all times, she's supposed to be in view of the camera. Originally, there were agents watching the camera to assure that she was where she was supposed to be. As they've realized her new level of subservience, they've become somewhat lax in their observation of her, which will be their mistake and their asses. When she wakes from her short sleep, she sets to her task immediately. She slides from the bed with double her normal catlike grace. Remember, she's escaping for two now.

She disposes of her robe until she's clad in only her illegally held drawstring shorts and white cotton undershirt. She knows it's a cold night. She's also aware that at an established spot, a black bag holds a set of clothes to tide her over until she reaches her next destination. All she has to do is get there. That's the easy part. The hard part is not getting killed on the way. Anyone else can walk, but Irina must fly.

Her first obstacle is the door. She looks at it for a moment, not totally ready for something seemingly so innocuous to be an imposition this early in the game. She looks at the security console and considers simply busting the hell of it, but thinks better of that. She types in 'Laura' patiently and on comes the green light. Sometimes, she wonders why they let Jack program anything with a password around here, but decides to save such thoughts for later, since his predictability just saved her life. Again. She's getting sick of this.

She checks the halls before making her exit, knowing she has only so much time to evade them before she must make her way to the roof. She jogs down the hall on her cheaply-clad feet, praying that no one comes. For a while, it seems as though someone up there's listening. However, as she reaches the end of the violently illuminated hall, she encounters--who else?--Jack and Sydney on their way to interrogate her. She freezes at the sight of old ghosts and beats a hasty retreat in the opposite direction. It's no use, they know she's out and there's not putting this cat back in the bag. She has no choice, but to go now. Both she and Edward are in jeopardy.

Irana quivers nervously and her arms start to wrap around her, but Irina breaks her hold angrily and pushes her exhausted self forth. If they stop, if they dare stop…it will mean certain death. Though leaving brooks no better options. Damned if they do, and especially if they don't. They turn a corner and meet a face full of guns. She has anticipated this. They have dreaded this.

She stops, trapped between her demons and her faceless enemies. She has only one real weapon and it is the one that frightens both of them. Irina can use it, but wielding it strikes fear within her because only the strongest of emotions and the deepest levels of meditation can trigger it. She doesn't have a choice and she does not like to be without choices.

Milo Rambaldi said of a woman,_"This woman here depicted will possess unseen marks. Signs that she will be the one to bring forth my works. Bind them with fury. A burning anger, unless prevented. At vulgar cost, this woman will render the greatest power unto utter desolation. _

_"This woman, without pretense, will have had her effect, never having seen the beauty of my sky behind Mt. Sebacio. Perhaps a single glance would have quelled her fire." _

It was during her time with Viktor, in his prison, that she realized that she was this woman. She has never seen Rambaldi's sky, and her anger does burn in her veins as the flames that would inhabit the sky if she is not satisfied with what comes next.

"You have to let me leave."

"Put your hands in the air! Do it now." She lifts them up cooperatively. "Get on the ground! Do it now!" This time, she doesn't comply. "Get on the floor! Do it now!" They get the order to cock their guns.

"Do it now, Derevko," she hears Sydney order from behind her. She doesn't listen because Irana is afraid of ghosts and the last thing they need is for her to go haywire.

The orders come faster now, and their heart rate increases. They're walking closer to her, to them; she can feel them, though they're beyond sight. Irana and Irina are one and in sync, every breath is shared.

"Don't do this. Let me go, now. Let us go." Irana maintains her calm by the slim thread she's using to restrain Irina. Irina wants to escape. She feels confined. She will fight like a wounded animal and then she will run. Only Irana can keep the body count down. "We just want to find our children. That's all. We don't want to hurt anyone. Don't force us."

"Who is we?"

"Don't force us, Jack," Irina commands. "We will destroy you. We have that power. Don't test us." There's an unnerved silence.

"Get on the ground, Irina! Do it now! Do not make me shoot you. Get on the ground." That slim thread snaps and time slows down before all of them.

Irina turns to look at her ghosts once more with one word of advice. "Duck." She swings back around to face the phalanx of her opposition. "You were warned." She meets the eyes of the foremost agent ahead of her. He jerks and steps away. Her pupils dilate until they are but dark portals ringed in gold and green. He can read the fury there. It frightens him. It should. She has the potential to crush him without lifting a finger. The eyes have it. He breaks her stare, but doesn't lose her focus. She walks towards him as he drops to his knees, holding his head and muttering heatedly to himself. His inferiors collapse around him in similar states of dementia. One world is on their lips, _Irina. _

As they writhe in pain, she charges through the throng towards a nearby staircase. _You went easy on them,_ thought Irana. _Yes, I don't want to be a murderer anymore,_ Irina said in return. But she will kill if she must. She sees Jack and Sydney beginning to pursue. The look she tosses over her shoulder is enough to end that problem.

They are both thrown back a couple of yards, knocking down the small army they were carrying with them. That gives Irana/Irina a good head start. Not that they need one. They're nearly invisible as they catch their stride. The stairs are nothing as they're conquered in three leaps. Sydney, Jack, and Co. try in vain to catch up to her as she continues her jumps up whole flights at a time. Finally, reaching the top, she broke through code-secured door with a vengeance. She could hear the guns outside cocking, but worries little about them as they miss her in her speed. She hops onto the ledge and freezes as she's confronted with the distance to the ground. She closes her eyes and clinches her fists. She has to do this for her children; she must do this for them. She holds her arms out and prepares to step off.

She's frightened because she doesn't know what's gonna happen next. Will she live or die? Only God will decide. She's jarred from her wary thoughts by Jack's voice.

"Don't do it, Irina? Step backwards off the ledge. Get down now!" She doesn't acknowledge him and lets one foot dangle amusingly over the open air. Even in her lost state, she can still tease him. "Irina, I'm--" Someone hushes him and she feels a sudden unease.

"Mom." She doesn't respond. "Mom, it's Syd. Mom, step down. You don't have to do this. What about the kids? Your kids? We all need you. We'll find them if you just step down. You don't have to do this alone. Please, mom." Slowly, Irina looks over her shoulder, seeing her little girl all grown up for the first time in months. She's perfectly stunning. _Just like you,_ Irana thinks to her sister.

"Sydney." Her daughter nods and steps forward, dropping her gun to her side and reaching out a hand to her mother.

"Come on, Mom. Take my hand. We can talk about this." If only they could.

"I'm sorry." Irana hides her face while Irina faces the situation with open eyes. She blows a tender kiss to Sydney and then, she steps off.

Sydney's scream follows her down. "Mom!" If she looks up, she can see Sydney leaning haphazardly over the edge of the roof, a hand extended desperately as Jack tries to pull her back. Tears are rolling down her sweet porcelain cheeks. "Mommy," she sobs in pain. "Mommy, no."

She's a little girl all over again and she's just lost her mother.

"Mommy."


End file.
